


never (want to) leave this bed

by goodmorningbeloved



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Much Secondhand Embarrassment, PWP (probably), Table Sex, a hint of domesticity, bad choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:41:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10039007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmorningbeloved/pseuds/goodmorningbeloved
Summary: “I mean,” Rafe says, closing his eyes and tilting his hair back to the spray, “this is what couples do, right?”“Guess so,” Sam relents, and then he stops there, becauseyes, it is, but they…aren’tone. Are they? They aren’t. Right. Sometimes, between all the—kissing and the outings and the other recent activities that have been taking place behind closed doors where there is no one to convince—sometimes. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.__Or: Weeks late into their fake relationship, Sam and Rafe find themselves in a sort-of honeymoon phase.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1) this takes place within the [fake dating au](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/notcompletelyfake), a considerable time after "Adagio."  
> 2) title is in reference to maroon 5's "never gonna leave this bed," whose lyrics aren't completely applicable to this fic but has the vibe i imagined for the first portion of this fic  
> 3) um, this is really self indulgent. goodbye.

Sam wakes up to hair in his mouth, and it takes a few seconds for his drowsy mind to realize that it isn’t his. It doesn’t startle him nearly as much as it should, and neither does the realization that he isn’t in his own apartment or in his own bed or even _alone,_ for that matter. Sam is torn between moving away and moving closer because Rafe, as he’s come to find out recently, makes a good source of warmth.

Yes, that is the sole reason that Sam decides to move closer after all. The Adler estate uses air conditioning liberally and Rafe has a habit of stealing the sheets, which means that Sam is left cold _._ He’s just before the absolute threshold of consciousness where he can still drift back to sleep, and all that matters is that he isn’t cold anymore so he _can_. 

Rafe absolutely _radiates_ heat, which is why Sam only tilts his head lower to avoid Rafe’s hair before letting his eyes slip shut again. It’s beautifully peaceful for all of five seconds.

“Mmh— _Sam._ ” Rafe’s grouchy voice brings him back a step from sweet sleep. He becomes aware of Rafe’s hand clumsily swatting at the arm he’s wrapped around his chest — when did he put that there? He’s not sure, but he _is_ sure that if Rafe succeeds, he’ll lose his heat source, and that makes him hold on even tighter.

He hears Rafe groan softly. “I _swear_ , Sam,” he hears him mumbling, “you’re a goddamn _furnace_ —” and then Rafe is genuinely trying to wriggle out of his hold, an effort that consists of him bodily trying to pull his upper body away from Sam’s chest.

Sam’s not sure what finally brings him past that threshold of consciousness—the sound of muffled cursing or Rafe himself, failing to get very far away from Sam and only succeeding in pushing his ass back against Sam, which.

Well.

“ _I despise you_ ,” Rafe huffs, finally going slack against him. It would seem that he’s resigned himself to falling back asleep like this, and Sam would be smug about getting Rafe to relent _for once_ if he didn’t have Rafe’s ass pressed against him. 

“Well, I like _you_ ,” he confides quietly, teasing, and an easy smile slips over his face when he imagines Rafe’s brow furrowing in response. He presses an apologetic kiss to the base of Rafe’s neck.

He feels Rafe shiver at the contact, and, right, that’s one of the things he’s discovered over these past few days—Rafe’s sensitive, flushes when Sam kisses his neck or the inside of his wrist or the inside of his thighs, so Sam kisses him again, a little lower, and this time he’s rewarded by a soft sigh that goes straight to his cock. 

He loosens his hold marginally, lets his hand slide over Rafe’s bare stomach to settle on his hip, and he gives the smallest of thrusts against Rafe, lips brushing over the top of Rafe’s spine. He feels Rafe go still, and then Rafe is turning over to face him, inadvertently kicking the sheets to the bottom of the bed.

“Don’t start things you can’t finish,” Rafe murmurs warningly, before craning his head up to kiss Sam properly. It’s a little bit sloppy from this angle, but from the way Rafe enthusiastically kisses back, it’s good enough.

Sam hums against his mouth, letting his hand roam up the smooth skin of Rafe’s back and nudging him closer. This is hardly new territory since that first night something had snapped between them, but it still _feels_ new. “Who says I can’t finish this,” he says.

“Oh, you know,” Rafe’s face relaxes in a faint smirk, “I figured you would still be worn out after last night—”

“ _I’d_ be worn out?” Sam aims to kiss that smirk right off of his face, but Rafe matches him as easily as that first night they had kissed, mouth only pliant enough to give Sam an illusion of control.

An _illusion_ , that’s how it is most of the time Sam’s with Rafe. Rafe doesn’t like to be predictable, he’s come to learn, which is why it actually isn’t much of a surprise when Rafe abruptly breaks away from the kiss first and says, “You know, you’re right.” And then he turns right back over, making a show of fluffing the pillow before settling back into it, but not before Sam catches the smirk still playing on his lips. “I _am_ a little sore.”

The cold quickly fills in the space that Rafe occupied just seconds ago, and Sam finds himself uttering _oh no you don’t_ before wrapping an arm around Rafe and pulling him in close again. Rafe laughs, a small, breathless, beautiful little sound, and Sam thinks for a moment about adding that to his list of discoveries but in truth his mind is far from notes and lists. He drags his hand back over Rafe’s hip, smiling when he finds Rafe half hard. “What happened to not starting things you can’t finish?” he asks smugly against the Rafe’s shoulder blade.

“Sam.” This time Rafe’s sigh is a full-body one. He relaxes against Sam, but his next words are no less authoritative: “ _Get on with it_.”

Sam chuckles and wraps his fingers around Rafe’s dick, starts a slow and languid pace and marvels when he sees the highs of Rafe’s cheeks go pink. _This_ is interesting—Rafe seems particularly receptive today, and Sam’s not sure if it’s because of the early morning sluggishness or if they’ve crossed some other invisible border in this not-relationship, but he intends to make full use of it. He kisses a spot on Rafe’s shoulder before closing his mouth over it and sucking until he’s satisfied with the mark he leaves there, his hand never once losing rhythm.

Rafe has gone tense against him again, and he’s reaching back with his free hand to tangle his fingers into Sam’s hair and keep him there like he’s afraid that Sam could possibly want to be somewhere else. “Not going anywhere, sweetheart,” Sam whispers into his shoulder, assuring, and the endearment doesn’t really register in the heat of the moment. His own arousal is becoming harder to ignore, and he has to stop himself from spreading Rafe’s legs and just sinking into him right there because this moment, this one, is about Rafe.

Sam can tell he’s about to come when Rafe’s hand closes over his and urges him to stroke faster, and he has a flash of the previous night, Rafe’s hot mouth wrapped reverently around his dick until Sam had fisted his hand in his hair and come on his tongue like that, and figures it’s his turn to be generous. They’re all about mutually beneficial agreements, aren’t they? So he moves his hand faster, absorbs every little thrust that Rafe makes against him and applies just the slightest bit of pressure when he feels the telltale squeeze of Rafe’s hand and hears the small, strained syllable of his name.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs behind the shell of Rafe’s ear, “c’mon, Rafe, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” and when the tension in Rafe’s shoulders finally breaks, Sam wishes they were facing each other so he could watch Rafe’s as he comes, how his eyebrows draw together and his eyes flutter shut, a picture-perfect image of _bliss_ before his face relaxes completely. 

Small sacrifices, he supposes.

He doesn’t let up even when he feels Rafe’s come spill over his hand but mouths at the base of Rafe’s neck again and doesn’t slow until he’s sure that Rafe has ridden out the waves of his orgasm. Only then does Sam push himself up slightly on an elbow and leans over Rafe’s shoulder, kisses his cheek until Rafe turns his head tiredly and lets Sam kiss him properly on the mouth, bringing him down from the high.

“ _Christ_ ,” he hears Rafe exhale shakily, but Sam doesn’t have time to feel triumphant. His focus has shifted to his own erection, still hard and pressing against the swell of Rafe’s ass, leaving a lewd trail of precome over his soft skin. “Condom,” Rafe mumbles in reminder, but Sam only makes a soft hushing sound and wipes his hand on the sheets.

“Classy,” Rafe observes, followed by a small chuckle that makes Sam _feel_ things he’s not quite ready to address at the moment. “And don’t _shush_ m—” He breaks off when Sam’s cock slips along the cleft of his ass, hissing instead, “Oh, _fuck_.”

“You said you were sore,” Sam murmurs in explanation, trailing his hand below Rafe’s hip. He lets his fingers run over Rafe’s backside appreciatively, but he doesn’t stop there, going lower until he can slide his hand between Rafe’s smooth thighs. Rafe gets the message and lifts his thigh slightly, enough for Sam to replace his hand with his cock, and, _oh_ , it’s not quite the real thing but it’s a happy compromise. “Just stay there, baby,” Sam breathes as he sinks into the warmth of Rafe’s thighs, “just like that, ah, _Rafe_.”

He elicits a low, surprised moan from Rafe when he starts thrusting, or maybe it’s the way he grips Rafe’s hip tight and jerks him back with each roll of his own hips. “Like this?” he faintly hears Rafe ask, sounding just as breathless but _curious_ as he suddenly closes his thighs snugly around Sam’s dick.

“Yeah,” Sam groans, scraping his teeth over Rafe’s shoulder and absolutely reveling in the shiver he earns from Rafe, “that’s perfect, yeah.” He speeds up his thrusts, and it isn’t long before the air is filled with obscene sounds of skin-on-skin and he’s so glad that Rafe’s parents aren’t supposed to be back until later because he can’t stop himself from moaning Rafe’s name as he rocks into Rafe’s thighs. “You feel so good, fuck, _Rafe_.”

He doesn’t expect Rafe to twist his head back moments later and capture his mouth in a searing kiss, but he kisses back all the same. “That’s right, come on,” Rafe’s voice is low and rough but encouraging as Sam chases his own release, “come on, Sam, _fuck_ _me_.”

“Christ, _look_ at you,” Sam growls, taking in Rafe’s flushed face and darkened eyes—he has a fleeting thought of doing this in front of a mirror, where he can hold Rafe against his chest and watch as his own cock slipping between Rafe’s thighs— _some other day._ For now, he tells Rafe, “Squeeze a little tighter for me,” and moans when Rafe _does_ , creating a tight, slick passage for him to drive into.

His climax takes him by surprise, catching him in the middle of a hard thrust and spilling come all over the inside of Rafe’s thighs. He groans out Rafe’s name as he rides out his orgasm, and he really feels like he might have whispered more praises into Rafe’s ear if Rafe wasn’t kissing him, bringing him back down from the high the way Sam had done for him.

Sam isn’t aware of how gentle it is until he feels Rafe’s fingers carding through his hair, and in the post-coital haze it suddenly seems possible to go back to sleep after all. But Rafe is shifting around, letting Sam slip out from between his thighs ( _fuck,_ that just _happened_ ), and then he’s climbing over Sam’s lap.

“Mm, wait,” Sam groans before Rafe engulfs him in a long, lazy kiss, “give me, like, ten minutes, and maybe a toothbrush—”

Rafe chuckles lowly. Sam shivers when he feels his hands slide up his chest with no particular destination in mind. “Trust me, the last thing I want to do is stay another second in this bed,” Rafe whispers like it’s a secret.

Sam kisses him again because that definitely doesn’t bruise his ego—

“No, Sam, I mean—I’m _filthy_.” Rafe moves his hips pointedly, and, oh, Sam is reminded of the slickness on his thighs, rubbing off on his own hip now. “ _You’re_ helping me take the sheets down to the washroom later—”

“Why don’t we just sleep somewhere else tonight? Don’t you have, like, a billion other guest rooms we can use?” It worked for the other night, didn’t it?

Rafe rolls his eyes, but he says, “Four, we have _four_ , Samuel,” and his eyes are mirthful and Sam wants to kiss him suddenly. He does, since Rafe is there anyway and it would be a shame to waste the opportunity. “ _Honestly_ ,” Rafe sighs, “what are you trying to do, christen all of them?”

“Four sounds doable.” If the past few days are any proof of their… _dedication_ , at least. The only thing he’s surprised by is how they haven’t been caught yet.

“You’re incorrigible. Up.”

Sam complains the whole time Rafe drags him out of bed. Rafe’s solution seems to be to kiss him quiet, but that only means they get distracted several times before actually making it to the shower. 

“Oh no, don’t get shy on me now,” Rafe reprimands when he sees Sam hesitate in the doorway. “Get in here.”

Sam could tell him he was far from thinking shy things in those few seconds of pause, but he lets Rafe have this one, something he’s been doing a lot lately. Minutes later, he and Rafe are standing in the rather spacious shower, the spray warm and inviting, and Sam decides to comment, “Didn’t take you for the showering-together type.”

“I mean,” Rafe says, closing his eyes and tilting his hair back to the spray, “this is what couples do, right?”

“Guess so,” Sam relents, and then he stops there, because _yes_ , it is, but they… _aren’t_. Are they? They aren’t. Right. Sometimes, between all the—kissing and the outings and the other recent _activities_ that have been taking place behind closed doors where there is no one to convince— _sometimes._ Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

He thinks of a week back, when Rafe was still continuously insisting that they sleep on separate surfaces. He might think _look how far we’ve come_ if he actually knew _where_ they stood at the moment. He’s not even sure _when_ things changed, when it was suddenly okay for him to kiss Rafe when the urge struck him because chances were, Rafe would be ready to meet him halfway.

Rafe shifts and a bit of the spray catches Sam on the side of his face, reminding him, _This is not the time to panic._ Later, then.

“Can you grab the soap,” Rafe requests in that way of his, where he phrases it _like_ a request but verbalizes it like a command.

Sam passes it to him. He half expects Rafe to turn around and ask him to wash his back for him, but Rafe doesn’t, just starts washing himself down. When Rafe catches him staring, he raises an eyebrow and suggests, “The shampoo’s behind you too.”

After the shower, they brush their teeth together. When they leave the bathroom, their toothbrushes sit in the same cup.

 

 

 

There’s breakfast waiting for them when they get downstairs. It’s cold waffles, which one of the maids tries to offer to reheat, but Sam tells her it isn’t necessary. Rafe shrugs, going for oatmeal instead, and Sam gets to work on microwaving a bottle of maple syrup.

When the maid has cleared the room and the doors are shut, Rafe says, “We should talk about our future.”

Sam pretends he completely intended to jab the _stop_ button ten seconds too early and brings out the bottle of syrup, only lukewarm. “Uh, yeah, sure? Which part of it?” He manages a level tone as he turns to face Rafe, even managing to meet his gaze.

“The part where our businesses benefit each other,” Rafe says, taking a seat at the breakfast table. “I don’t think the story we agreed on is good enough anymore. Considering how often you,” he gestures to Sam vaguely with his spoon, “have been making appearances, more people have been asking me _how serious_ we are, what this could possibly mean for the company, so on and so forth.” He rolls his eyes, presumably at the memory of these people. To Sam, he passes a small smile and scoops a spoonful of oatmeal. “So we need to decide on the finer details.”

Right, he means their storybook future. “I thought we were sticking with our, uh,” he watches Rafe’s mouth close over the spoon, “businesses staying relatively independent.”

“But is there any _possibility_ of integration?” Rafe sighs as he sets the spoon down, leaning back to stretch in his chair. Sam’s mouth goes dry. “That’s what they want to know the most—of course, _they_ being business hawks looking to invest somewhere promising.”

“We can say we’re keeping our options open.”

“But we’re mostly looking to stay separate?”

Sam considers. “Yeah, like we agreed on.”

“Noted.”

The plate of waffles are on the table, right in front of Rafe, and Sam ought to go there and join him but suddenly his mind is buzzing with thoughts, most of them hanging, half-finished questions, and what’s left of his concentration is taken up by the way Rafe’s licking his lips.

“Sam?” Rafe asks, his voice breaking through the noise of Sam’s brain. Rafe tilts his head at him, a subtle motion that causes a single strand of his hair to come loose over his ear. His gaze flickers somewhere below Sam’s eyes. “Do you maybe want to join me at the table?”

The invitation spurs him into movement, and he’s leaving the syrup in favor of closing the distance between him and Rafe. Rafe, as always, meets him halfway there, hands twining in Sam’s hair a split second before their lips even meet.

“You do that on purpose,” Sam accuses as he backs Rafe into the table.

Rafe is more than happy to let Sam haul him onto the wooden surface, spreading his legs so Sam can press between them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rafe says, voice all innocence even if his face is anything but, and he locks his ankles behind Sam and tugs him in closer.

Sam is mesmerized by the sight of Rafe supporting himself with one hand on the table, leaning back at an angle that seems to offer himself to Sam. His newly-washed hair falls over his face, more strands coming loose by the second, and his eyes are dark with arousal but clear with mischief. He looks utterly pleased with himself. 

“Your _tongue_ ,” Sam says meaningfully before surging forward to kiss him again. Rafe’s laughter is lost between them as Sam grinds his hips hard into Rafe, all too aware of the way Rafe eagerly mirrors the movement. He can’t remember the last time he felt this _attuned_ to anyone else. 

_It’s because you practiced so much,_ he reasons. What did he say once to Rafe— _practice makes perfect_. Is this finally it?

Rafe kisses him differently in private—it’s a less grandiose affair, but Sam would be a liar if he says it’s any less capable of leaving him dazed. Time has a habit of blurring when he’s doing anything with Rafe, or even when he’s just _with_ Rafe, a phenomenon he has yet to understand, and this moment is no different.

All it takes is a streak of sunlight across the bay windows of the Adlers’ dining room for the reality of the situation to come shooting through a crack in the metaphorical sidewalk of Sam’s thought process. Sam hastily pulls himself away from the heat of Rafe’s mouth. 

_You just put ‘windows,’_ he thinks to himself, ‘ _the Adlers’ dining room,’ and ‘Rafe’s mouth’ in the same sentence, does that not spell out disaster-waiting-to-happen clearly enough for you?_ Apparently not, because when Rafe makes a disapproving sound and moves his attention to Sam’s neck instead, Sam does absolutely nothing to stop him and maybe even tilts his head a little. Maybe. Sam would plead the fifth there.

“Rafe,” he says, with much effort. Rafe’s got a hand fisted in the front of his shirt for balance and the other in his hair for the sole purpose of driving him insane, and it takes Sam a few more tries to finally garner Rafe’s attention. Rafe looks up at him, eyes lidded and faintly annoyed. “Maybe, ah, it isn’t such a great idea to, uh,” Sam grasps for the right word while one of Rafe’s hands grasps for something else, “ _do_ this — ah, _shit_ — in your parents’ dining room?”

“Should’ve raised that concern before you came over here,” Rafe whispers, fingers slipping below the waistband of Sam’s pajamas and curling around Sam’s hardening cock.

“The door’s not locked,” Sam groans into his hair, even though he bucks up involuntarily to Rafe’s touch.

“Shit.” Rafe actually does pause to look at the door, leaving his neck open for Sam’s attention. “There _is_ no lock on the door.”

“Your parents won’t be back until, what did they say, after lunch—”

“Three o’clock, give or take, they always take their time on dates— _shit_ , Sam.”

Sam smiles and kisses the latest hickey he’s left on Rafe’s skin. “So, back upstairs?” He smooths his hands along the sides of Rafe’s thighs, ready to lift him off the table and maybe even carry him all the way up if he has too—the maids have been staying out of their way lately, so he probably _could_ do it without being seen—

“No. _Here_.” Rafe pulls Sam back in by the front of his shirt again, and Sam wonders if Rafe’s trying to ruin all his good shirts so he can take him to more of those uptight stores and buy him new ones. “Hurry.”

That’s not the answer Sam was expecting, but it’s not one he opposes, either. “ _Why_ are you wearing jeans so early in the morning—”

“It’s hardly morning anymore—”

“Help me get them off.”

Rafe _laughs_ when Sam struggles with the button on his pants, eventually batting his hands away so he can do it himself. The table rocks slightly under them. “You’re hopeless,” Rafe points out, lacking a surprising amount of sarcasm, and a few seconds later the button is open and the zipper coming undone with it. Sam helps him tug his pants and his underwear down, until Rafe can kick them both off and Sam can press back between his bare legs. _So much for that shower._

“Should we at least get off the table,” Sam asks without it sounding much like a genuine question—he’d hate to move now, but there _is_ a perfectly good wall right there.

“Don’t worry, this is the breakfast table,” Rafe mumbles, more occupied with pushing Sam’s pants and boxers down simultaneously.

_Of course they’d have different tables for different times of the day,_ Sam thinks, but it’s full of more fondness than he expects. “Anyone could still walk in.”

Rafe groans in response, and another thought hits Sam— 

“Or maybe you want that?” He takes both of them in hand, hissing quietly when the contact sends a jolt of arousal down his spine. He’s thinking back on the times Rafe kissed him in front of a room of people, something Sam thought they did for show, but maybe there was more to it— “Do you _want_ people to know when you’re being fucked—”

“ _Jesus_ , Sam,” Rafe breathes, bowing forward slightly until his forehead leans against Sam’s chest. “There’s a condom in my back pocket, hurry up.”

Sam reaches back with his other hand and slips the condom out deftly, but not before leaving a deliberate swat. Rafe makes a low noise. “All right, all right, _patience_ —”

“I swear to God—”

“I don’t suppose you managed to fit a bottle of lube back there too?”

All the more reason they should go back upstairs, really, but then Rafe is taking him by the wrist and bringing Sam’s hand back up between them. “We’ll just have to stick with what we have,” he says, smirking, and then he deliberately takes two of Sam’s fingers into his mouth.

“Thought you were sore,” Sam manages, feeling a little weak when Rafe releases his fingers and presses a wet kiss to his knuckles.

Rafe cocks an eyebrow, looking amused that Sam remembered. “I appreciate the concern, but I’ll be fine.” He lowers himself back on his elbows, the fabric of his black shirt rumpled up and revealing a small stretch of skin that shouldn’t still be so tantalizing after Sam’s seen so much of him. “Now get on with it.”

Sam lifts Rafe’s leg over his shoulder and tugs him closer until he’s right at the edge of the table. The movement rucks Rafe’s shirt up even higher, revealing his toned abdomen underneath and the faint dusting of hair trailing downwards. Sam runs his hand down his thigh, proud of the way that makes Rafe’s eyes flutter shut, and slips the first finger inside. 

Rafe sighs appreciatively, _receptive as always_ , and Sam presses a kiss to the inside of his calf. He works his way up to two fingers, careful to stretch Rafe even though he’d like nothing more than to push inside right then (and even though he has a feeling that’s what Rafe would want _)._

“Oh, _God_ ,” Rafe moans when Sam works a third finger inside, “fuck, Sam, that’s enough, come on,” and he looks so _good_ like this that Sam almost just wants to keep him there, see how long it would take for Rafe to come from his fingers alone, but then Rafe is shifting his leg and Sam feels his dick nudge against Rafe’s thigh, a subtle reminder of that morning, and he decides to save that experiment for another day.

He leans down to kiss Rafe as he rolls the condom on, chuckling at Rafe’s small, impatient mutterings. “Ready?” he murmurs there, and Rafe says something about being _ready ten fucking minutes ago Sam I swear_ , which he takes as a sign to begin pushing in.

“ _Fuck_ , yes,” Rafe exhales when Sam first breaches him, his head falling to the side. His hair fans out on the table, chestnut on mahogany, and Sam burrows into the exposed part of his neck. He shifts slightly and hears a click, probably from the button of Rafe’s jeans still on the floor, and he adjusts his grip on Rafe’s calf before thrusting in the rest of the way.

Rafe keens, a sound that slants higher into something closer to a _scream_ , and Sam lifts his head to look at Rafe, worried he’s hurt him, only to find that Rafe’s hands have flown to his mouth and his eyes are wide open, staring off to the side—

—the side, the _door,_ which has been opened, and Celia Adler, frozen two steps inside.

“Oh my God,” Sam hears someone say — later he’ll realize it’s coming from _him_.

“ _Mother_ ,” Rafe utters.

For a slice of silent, terrifying _eternity_ , no one moves.

And then it’s Celia Adler who breaks the trance, taking another small step inside to— _oh Jesus she’s going to kill me with her bare hands_ , Sam thinks wildly—grab a bottle of wine from the nearby counter. “I am going to join my husband on the porch for some wine, darling,” she says calmly, collectedly, and she must be addressing Rafe but her eyes are riveted on Sam and _nowhere_ else. “I suggest you disinfect before he co— returns inside.”

And, just as quietly as she had come in, she steps out.

“Oh, my God,” Sam says. “Oh _Jesus Christ_ , holy Mary mother of God and—”

“Sam,” Rafe says with a voice that suggests _he’s_ holding onto his last shred of calm, “can you please remove yourself from me before you have a meltdown.”

He pulls out, apologizing clumsily when Rafe hisses at the loss, and promptly begins pulling his pants back up. “Rafe, that was your m—”

“Sam, I _know,_ _I was right here._ ”

“Oh my God.” Sam’s not sure he can say much else. Rafe is still on his back with both hands pressed to his mouth, but his eyes are closed and he almost looks like he’s actually praying. “Hey.” He leans back down when he’s clothed again. “Rafe? Hey, are you alive—”

“Unfortunately,” is Rafe’s answer, spoken through his hands and without his eyes opening.

“Right, fantastic, because remember when I asked about you having a backup plan in case your dad kills me? It’d be great if I could hear that now—”

Rafe peers an eye open, then the other. “He’s not going to kill you,” he says with an enviable calm. “Not if we clean up in time.”

“Your mother just saw us fucking,” Sam half whispers, half shouts, “what if she tells him—”

“Please don’t use my _mother_ and _fucking_ in the same sentence ever again, Sam, or so help me God—”

Sam groans, pressing the back of his wrist hard against his forehead. “Can we _please_ clean up now?”

Rafe finally moves his hands away from his face to push himself up to a sitting position. His face is burning bright red, a flush that goes all the way up to the tips of his ears. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”

“Oh no, the table was _your_ idea.” 

“ _You_ encouraged it!”

“Your mouth encouraged _me._ ”

“My m— Okay, okay, you know what, let’s just— Where are my pants, for Christ’s sake—” Rafe gingerly lowers himself back on his feet and picks up his discarded jeans on the floor. “There are wipes under the sink, can you _please_ go get them.”

Sam is more than happy to oblige. They turn out to be _germicidal disposable wipes_ , stored in a container that looks far more serious than the regular Clorox, which Sam probably thinks is a good thing. He wipes down the table as Rafe redresses, making sure to also clean the parts they _didn’t_ touch. He even begins to wipe down the legs of the table when Rafe finally stops him, two fingers pressed to his temple like he’s fighting a headache, “Okay, you don’t have to clean that up.”

“Rafe, we’re probably going to eat _at this same table_ tonight.”

“No. No, this is the breakfast table, remember?” Rafe nods to himself like he’s come upon a good answer to their problems. He opens his eyes; he’s still blushing. “We always eat lunch and dinner on the dining table. I’ll ask the maids to give this table another wipe-down, and… and it should be fine for tomorrow.”

“Can you also ask the maids to clean your mother’s memory out—”

“Sam. _Samuel._ Can you please, _please,_ just _not_ mention this. Possibly ever again.”

Repression as a way of coping?

Sam can do that.

 

 

 

“Mr. Drake?” A knock comes at the door of his and Rafe’s room. The voice is soft and timid, and Sam assumes it’s one of the maids. He winces—after _brunch_ , he and Rafe had gone upstairs to find that their sheets had already been replaced. “Mr. and Mrs. Adler would like me to inform you that dinner is ready.”

He closes out of his bank statement and shuts his laptop. Rafe had promised to meet him at dinner before going off to take a business call, but Sam would gladly wait for him if not for the sound of the maid still outside. After everything they must have witnessed (or inferred) in the past few days, Sam doesn’t want to give them anything else suspicious to go off of.

Into the hallway he goes, then, _alone_ , and down the stairs and towards the dining room.

One of the other maids stops him before he can enter. “We’re actually serving dinner at the breakfast table tonight,” she says apologetically.

Sam blinks. “I thought the breakfast table was for…” The maid tilts her head. “…breakfast,” he finishes lamely.

“Normally, yes, but the dining table had to be taken away for repairs earlier,” she explains. “Mr. Adler has been meaning to replace it for quite some time now.”

“Oh,” Sam finds himself saying, “okay,” and then he lets the maid lead him to the kitchen, where Bruce and Celia Adler are already seated at the breakfast table. Surprisingly, so is Rafe.

Four different plates have been set up, and the table, about half the size of the proper dinner table, is filled with food. 

The only open seat remaining is on Rafe’s left and Celia’s right, across from Bruce, on the side of the table that— _Oh, hell._

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Drake,” Bruce says. Sam’s gaze flickers uncertainly to Rafe and Celia, but neither of them quite meet his eyes. “I heard you and Rafe decided to move rooms last night—was there something not to your liking?”

Sam hears the underlying _threat_ in his voice, but it doesn’t feel any more… _murderous_ than usual, certainly not murderous enough if Celia told him of that afternoon, which must mean…

Sam gingerly takes his seat. Everyone seems to fall into motion around him, reaching for various plates of food across the table. “Not at all.” He shakes his head. “We just wanted…a change of views.”

“The view of the garden wasn’t to your liking?”

Sam pours a little too much food onto his plate, but he doesn’t dare put any back. He hazards a glance at Rafe, but Rafe is dutifully cutting into his steak. “It was,” he answers quickly, “it was just—”

“The balcony was too close to your windows, Father,” Rafe steps in smoothly. “Sam didn’t want his morning smoke making its way into your and Mother’s room.”

The mention of his smoking musn’t be an improvement, but Bruce Adler at least seems diverted from the subject. “How thoughtful,” he says, and then he returns to his food, and Sam’s life is spared.

For that moment, at least.

“What happened to the dining table?” Rafe asks casually, and Sam is glad he doesn’t have any food in his mouth yet or he might have choked on it. _So he didn’t know either_. “I thought I saw it just this morning.”

“Bruce and I decided over breakfast that it was time to replace it,” Celia answers. She’s not looking at Rafe, but Rafe isn’t looking at her either. Sam decides to fix his eyes safely on Bruce Adler’s plate. “I didn’t know you held a fondness for it, darling.”

“I didn’t.” Rafe shrugs. “It’s just that it’s been so long since we’ve eaten anything but breakfast on this table—it feels almost wrong to do it.” He chuckles, glancing between his parents, and Sam holds his breath.

“Yes, well,” Celia says, taking a sip from her glass, “I’m sure dinner isn’t the only thing that has been inappropriately devoured on this table before.”

Rafe coughs. Sam drops his fork.

“Oh dear,” Celia comments mildly. Bruce is frowning, glancing between his wife and his son like he can _tell_ there’s something wrong but can’t quite tell what. 

Sam hurries to pick up his fork, hoping to keep it that way. “The steak is lovely,” he says brightly. “It tastes absolutely exqui—”

Rafe coughs again, a little more quietly, and Sam looks down and realizes he hasn’t taken a bite out of his own steak.

“Exquisite, I’m _sure_ it tastes exquisite,” Sam corrects himself quickly and gets to work on cutting his steak and taking a bite so he has _something_ going for him.

Bruce eyes him, wary. Celia continues to avoid his stare completely.

Rafe, on the other hand, shifts so that his knuckles brush reassuringly against Sam’s, and he passes Sam a discreet little smile that does more to calm Sam’s nerves than he probably knows.

_Well,_ Sam thinks, returning the smile, _at least I’ve got him_ _on my side._


End file.
